9
The Seventh at Seven“How many is that, Jonah?”
Jonah pulled a face at the nosiness, but quickly manufactured a grin. “Forty-two, Smith,” he answered. “So far, anyway.”
Smith shook his head. “That's an interesting habit of yours, Rowe,” he said. “Breaking all those twigs every single day. I keep asking you, man, but you never really answer. What do you do that for?”
Jonah took a deep breath as he snapped a dry birch twig in two. “I have 'really answered' you before, Smith,” he murmured. “I told you, it was personal.”
He picked up a couple more, not waiting for Smith's undoubtedly puzzled look. He didn't need to see the look, because he'd seen it almost every day for the past four months.
In the aftermath of Mr. Steverson's murder, Jonah had been at the estate, coasting. That hadn't
